


On An Equal Footing

by xuanyu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ableist Language, Bone Breaking, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Sylvain is 17, like 1 word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21731569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuanyu/pseuds/xuanyu
Summary: Time drawled in the absence of the first born. The crest-bearing heir grew comfortable. It couldn't be allowed.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Miklan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	On An Equal Footing

Deft hands twirl a basic wooden lance, vibrant locks unmistakable as Sylvain strides down the halls. Strides are leisurely despite knowing he’s already past ten to his sparring lesson. The tune he whistles emphasizing his careless attitude, still spinning the lance as if a baton rather than a weapon. His movements bring the weapon above his head before swiftly bringing it back down, easily adopting a wide stance with feet adequately spread, posture solid and hands spread evenly along the shaft of the lance as if ready to attack. 

Then just as easily as he slipped into the combat stance, he relaxes and the lance is vertical on the floor, hands caressing it as if it were an individual. His whistled harmony leads his dance with the piece of wood, simply enjoying the moment of adolescence rather than being the prim and proper heir he was meant to be. 

Footsteps warn from around the corner and Sylvain jerks to composure with enough ease to give the expected nod and a hint of a smirk to the maid as she comes into view.

She smiles and respectfully returns the nod, quick to disappear around another corner to attend her duties. Sylvain huffs and scratches at his head, figuring he should take that as a sign to get to his lesson. He was sure to be about twenty minutes late by the time he got there. 

And he’s almost there too, deciding to take a shortcut through a less traveled section of the castle. Then he’s passing a doorway and from the corner of his eye, a hand shoots out in his direction. The teen’s body reacts before his mind, skidding and stumbling backwards in a retreat, his back finding a wall, lance facing the would-be assailant. The motion forces the breath out of Sylvain, and he takes in what air he can as his eyes jolt upwards, coming face to face with the man who instilled something worse in him than his growing disdain for crests.

“M-Miklan?” His brother had been disinherited many moons ago and it had been since that moment that he had not seen the elder, “What are you doing here?” 

He had grown comfortable in the other’s absence. Those touches never left him, but the boy could at least pretend the fear had. Yet here he was, pupils dilated, out of breath, and hands holding onto the lance so hard he thinks it might snap.

The first born is slow to hide the dissatisfaction at not managing to grab the other, eventually letting a bitter smile form, a gruff laughter leaving him, “Just wanted to see how my baby brother was doing. Seems your training is going well at least.” The smile never reaches his eyes, hate so deep in them that Sylvain thinks he might drown in it.

Sylvain is silent. His body has had it ingrained to follow orders and stay. He was different now though. He’s changed in these few months the other couldn’t treat him how he used to. Miklan continues and it jolts him back to attention, “Well, no words for your big brother? You didn’t miss me?” Then he’s lunging forward and the teen springs to action, sidestepping, training lance unsteady in his trembling hands. 

He swallows the dread threatening to make his knees buckle, watching Miklan turn to him with that recognizable glare he wore throughout his childhood. He can fight this time, gaze snapping down to his lance and back to the other. The positions he should be taking, the movements he should be incorporating are all clumsy, lacking the proper sequence, but he continues— he lunges forward, lance aimed to at least disable the other.

It feels like he’s in slow motion as he watches the other easily grab at the shaft of the lance, right behind the spearhead and easily yank it out of Sylvain’s hands. The flimsy tool seems far more deadly in his brother’s grasp. Then another hand reaches out and Sylvain can’t pry the grip off of his wrist, heels digging into the stone and before the thought to call out for help enters his mind, Miklan has thrown him into the doorway he hid by, shutting the door behind them.

It’s dark and Sylvain hollers in pain as he clatters against what feels like armor, all discarded and left to gather dust in this removed wing of the home. He groans through the pangs of hurt, sure to have gotten bruises on his legs and back which took the brunt of the fall.

His eyes take time to adjust, slowly making out the vague figure of the other— yet light fills the room, one oil lamp and then another flaring to life. Miklan must have brought them with him. This was planned. The lance is gone from Miklan’s hand and Sylvain finds it safe to assume it had been thrown somewhere in the room as they entered.

Despite the growth spurt he had gone through in just a few months, Miklan still managed to hold an intimidating height over him, but more often than not he would not be standing in Miklan’s presence, just as he wasn’t now. The other was always impending and menacing. 

Sylvain wasn’t always a scared little kid though. Despite how his heart beat in his chest as if it were to burst at any moment— he had to grow up, “M….Miklan, I….I’m not a kid anymore…I won’t just let you…..” Sylvain can’t meet the other’s eyes, “….do those things to me anymore.”

Miklan laughs. It’s a short and bitter laugh, “You've never let me. You’ve always had to make it difficult.” Then he’s placing a foot on the boy’s ankle and adding pressure. Sylvain glares up at the older man, placing a hand on his own knee to tug at his leg when a jolt of pain runs up his leg. Miklan only presses harder and harder, watching the glare slip from the youth’s features, Sylvain instead favoring to screw his eyes shut and throw his head back in pain, hissing at the pressure.

It only grows worse and Sylvain begins to worry the other will actually break it. But he won’t beg for it to stop. He’s forcing himself to crack his eyes open, and Miklan adds enough to drag a scream out from below. Teeth grind together, hateful eyes glaring up at the first born as arms desperately tugged at the pinned leg. And the next hike in pressure is too much, it must be about to break— the pain is dizzying and razor-sharp. 

Sylvain is moving before he can stop himself, both hands grabbing at the one hand that calmly stayed at Miklan’s side, “Sto-“ He chokes, another rush of agony to his nerves. His nails dig into his brother’s hand, desperation driving him, “Stop. Please. Miklan- It-ugh-hurts.” The resounding crack is earsplitting to Sylvain. 

For a heartbeat, maybe two, he’s silent- and then there’s a hand pressing to his mouth and he’s screaming. Sylvain can’t- his ankle, the pain- Miklan, why? His nerves are alight and he can feel that hand press down tighter as a shriek escapes him, the slightest twitch inducing worse pain than he’s ever known.

The seconds feel like hours and Sylvain isn’t coherent enough to recognize himself sobbing against his brother’s hands, tears constant and heavy. The hand only seems to press harder down and he’s scared that will leave a bruise. Not like his ankle isn’t evidence enough.

Miklan eventually pulls back, inspecting Sylvain who is still caught between whimpers of pain and weeping silently. Then he’s grabbing at the teen’s arms to move him and it’s a mistake- the youth reeling his head, teeth biting hard enough to easily draw blood from his lower lip. Miklan huffs, “It’ll be quick.”

And he does try to be quick, making the movements as gentle as he can. Particularly because he can’t have the other screaming his head off. That will surely grant someone’s attention no matter how empty the wing is. He settles the boy against the wall, finding an empty spot on the floor, outstretching his legs, not paying much mind to the ugly sight of the broken ankle.

Then he’s at the teen’s side, grabbing a fistful of fiery locks to force him to meet his gaze, “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you gave me a proper greeting. You had to go and try to gut me with a lance. It’s not a nice feeling when your brother wants you dead.”

Sylvain doesn’t miss the irony in those words, groaning in pain. He’s too tired. He can’t say he didn’t try, “What….do you want?” He shuts his eyes at another throe wracking his body, not missing the shuffling of the other’s garments.

When he opens his eyes, he isn’t surprised to find the other’s lower half bare in his peripheral. A sigh escapes through his nose and he hoists himself up, whining at the slightest movement to his ankle. Sylvain spares a glance upwards, looking for some ounce of pity, regret or mercy. 

Nothing. Frowning, he leans forward and wraps his fingers around the heavy girth. He’s pumping and once it swells, he uses a thumb to tease the tip. Skilled fingers deliver lengthy and firm strokes, years of practice— rather, abuse— under his belt.

Pace quickening, Sylvain lets his hand work the shaft to mid length, bringing his mouth to the head. Running his tongue over his lips, dry from the screaming, he takes the other in, letting his eyes shut to simply focus and get this over with. 

It’s not long before he’s working Miklan well enough that the elder begins to rock his hips in tandem. Calloused fingers tangle in Sylvain’s hair, the other hand swatting away the one on the base of his cock, taking himself into his own hold.

Miklan guides the boy’s mouth along the shaft, each thrust a little less shallow until his balls are up against the boy’s chin and he stays there, enjoying how his baby brother’s throat contracts at the intrusion. Sylvain doesn’t fight it, spit that he can’t swallow dribbling out, hands against the man’s thighs for support.

Miklan allows a groan to slip past his lips, “Goddess, you must be the most skilled whore in all of Fódlan.” And he’s pulling back, “Stick your tongue out,” letting the head rest against the boy’s tongue, allowing pre-cum to build up there. Gripping at his dick, he begrudgingly pulls away from the boy’s heat, “Swallow.” Sylvain does so, no longer bothered by the taste enough to react. The drag of it down his throat is something he will never grow accustomed to though.

The erection is back on him, pre-cum smearing across his cheek before Miklan guides himself back to his brother’s lips, easily parting and taking him back into that inviting and wet warmth. 

Sylvain feels the tight grip leave his hair as he falls into the rhythm of bobbing on the other’s length, letting his lips cover his teeth, hands still braced against Miklan’s thighs. Thighs squeezed together, feeling that familiar warmth crawl and creep into the pit of his stomach. He hated it, how his body reacted, getting aroused from the act without his consent. The dull pain of his ankle had warded it off until now. He would simply have to endure it.

Out of breath, he’s pulling back and giving his attention to the head now, tongue against the slit, a hand returning to resume pumping. Sylvain almost loses himself enough in the act that he lets a whine slip out. His free hand goes between his own legs and he’s fidgeting with the fabric of his trousers, willing his erection to go away. 

Miklan’s endurance was one sent to spite him. No matter how he moved his hand, tongue or mouth exactly how he knew the other liked until one grew sore and he had to swap— Miklan wouldn’t cum. There was also his ankle worrying him. The longer he took, the longer it took to reset it, if it would even heal proper. Sylvain almost bites down out of spite at just imagining being unable to recover, to be confined to crutches for the rest of his life. He thinks better and takes the other until the base, moaning around it despite himself.

The gentle waves of pleasure rock into him and the teen huffs through his nose, pulling off and panting against the engorged length. Miklan is not having any of it though, hand back to force him back to work and Sylvain simply allows the other fuck his lax mouth, hoping it’s enough to just get him to cum. 

Cruel eyes don’t miss how those slim fingers slip underneath trousers, the mouth around the elder’s shaft keening at finally getting attention of his own. The first born snorts a laugh and lets both hands hold his brother’s face before mercilessly pounding it. Sylvain gags and sputters through it, taking a moment to relearn to adjust to the harsh treatment— but his hand doesn’t stop through it all.

The teen’s head is throbbing from the constant abuse and he hopes— he prays it ends soon, the attention he gives himself below a small reprieve in all this. It continues like this for what feels like an eternity until finally Miklan pulls out and one hand is against the wall, the other jerking himself off with a concentration Sylvain rarely saw.

Sylvain whimpers below, sinking into his own pleasure, the ache on his jaw finally gone. Red hair is messy against the stone wall, head tilting against it, his hand slick with his own pre-cum. He brings his hand to his own mouth to silence the sounds of pleasure, but Miklan hisses out, “Let me hear you.”

Then it doesn’t take long— Sylvain’s youth not allowing him the same endurance and he’s sputtering out whimpers. A gasp rips itself out of his throat at the jolts seem to run up his spine and back down to the tip of his cock. And he’s close and he bites his lip, but it’s already barreling out— “Miklan….Mi-ah-Miklan…I’m-” What escapes him is closer to a mewl than a moan as the orgasm crashes into him. He hasn’t rode off the waves before his brother is spilling over his face, pulling him close by his hair, covering every part of his sweet brother’s face in his semen.

Pants fill the room and Sylvain wrinkles his nose, the musk of the other’s spunk not a pleasant one. Without a cloth to wipe himself, his hand makes do, wiping off the excess. The sticky residual is something he will have to deal with until he can scrub his face clean. 

Miklan makes steady and silent work of fixing his clothes, Sylvain having already tucked himself away in shame. Sylvain says nothing, head turned away, waiting for the other to just go away. The throb of his ankle is steadily increasing and he’s desperate to see the house doctor. 

“Give me your arms.” Is the gruff command that comes from above. A snarky response dances on the redhead’s tongue, but considering the state of his ankle he silently complies. Slowly he’s hoisted up, hissing in pain at the shift. Being released all his weight rests on his uninjured foot, hands against the wall keeping him upright.

“Hope you have the same balance on one foot as you do on a horse,” The first born laughs. Sylvain glares up at Miklan who is already at the door, reaching for the handle, “Wouldn’t want House of Gautier’s beloved crest-bearer to become a cripple.” A cackle spills out and he’s gone, the door shutting and leaving Sylvain with his thoughts and the wavering glow of the oil lanterns.

Sylvain’s gaze dropped down to his ankle, purple and blue and facing an unsightly direction. He cursed the Goddess beneath his breath. 

He was truly beginning to loathe this so-called blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed.


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